A tiny cloud, high in the sky,
stretched thin and gray
as a squirrel-pelt pinned to the tanning board,
seemed to say to me, “Snow Maiden,
come March, I’ll enjoy watching
your frail form dissolving under the sun.”
(The Snow Maiden, daughter of Springtime
and Old Man Winter, was the heroine
of a number of folk tales, all of which
ended badly for her.
Typically, she fell in love
with a mortal who warmed her heart,
making her melt away.)
As I looked at the sky, my hands felt cold
even in the deepest fluff of my muff —
I felt so weird, I felt unreal.
If only I could have called back
those fast-passing easy weeks of his love,
elusive as time and lighter than air.
I wish I wasn’t bitter, I wish
I didn’t want revenge,
I wish I could die away, forgotten
along with winter’s last all-effacing blizzard.
On New Year’s Eve I played a fortune-telling game
and the answer was that I became his girlfriend
before January’s end.
Высоко в небе облачко серело,
Как беличья расстеленная шкурка.
Он мне сказал: «Не жаль, что ваше тело
Растает в марте, хрупкая Снегурка!»
В пушистой муфте руки холодели.
Мне стало страшнно, стало как-то смутно.
О, как вернуть вас, быстрые недели
Его любви, воздушной и минутной!
Я не хочу ни горечи, ни мщенья,
Пускай умру с последней белой вьюгой.
О нем гадала я в канун Крещенья.
Я в январе была его подругой.